“Every teacher has one free period,” she explained for him. “Most of us spend it grading papers, or preparing ourselves for later classes, though there’s nothing that says Sandy couldn’t have left the grounds. Though, now that I think about it …”

She hesitated, eyed him again.

“Starting in September, Sandy took on a special project. She was working with one of the eighth-graders, Ethan Hastings, on a teaching module.”

“A teaching module?”

“For his computer science class, Ethan was supposed to design a beginner’s guide to the Internet, which would be tested out on the sixth grade social studies class. Hence, Sandy’s involvement. The project ended months ago, but I still see the two of them huddled together in the computer lab. I had the impression from Sandy that Ethan is now working on something bigger and she was continuing to help him out.”

“Sandy … and a student?” Jason couldn’t wrap his brain around it. It was inconceivable.

Elizabeth arched a brow. “No,” she said firmly. “One, because young and pretty or not, I would never assume such a lack of professionalism from Sandy Jones. And two, well, if you saw Ethan Hastings, you’d understand point two. What I’m trying to tell you is that Sandy had only one free period each day, and hers was occupied.”

Jason nodded slowly, looking down at the floor, scuffing his toe. There was something here, though. He had to believe there was something here, if only because it was better than his other options.

“What about Thursday nights?” he asked abruptly. “When Sandy and Ree came to see the basketball games?”

“What about them?”

“Did she sit in the same place? Maybe beside the same guy? Perhaps she met someone during those nights, a fellow parent.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “I don’t know, Jason. I never noticed. But then, I haven’t made it to many of the games this season.” She gestured to her silvered hair. “I’m a grandma now, can you believe it? My daughter had her first child in November. I’ve spent most of my Thursday nights rocking my grandson, not sitting courtside. Though I can tell you who would know about Thursday nights. The basketball team picked up a new statistician for the season: Ethan Hastings.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Sergeant D.D. Warren didn’t give a flying fig what Colleen Pickler had said about sex offenders being model parolees, full of repentance and eager to please their court-appointed babysitters. D.D. had served eight years in uniform, and as a first responder to too many scenes of hysterical mothers and glassy-eyed children, she was firmly of the opinion that when it came to sex offenders, hell was not big enough.